by Cheryl Biggs
John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Henry Fonda—they’d all walked this same street at one time or another, a six-gun strapped to their hips, danger lurking around every corner. But that had been for the cameras.
This was real.
An old steam locomotive, its armor glistening beneath the pale moonlight, sat beside the dark railroad depot. Nearby a stagecoach stood empty next to a corral.
Hart had no idea which building Suzanne and her abductors were in, which gave them the advantage.
Hart turned a corner and stopped as he saw light shining from the windows of the old ranch house that had been used in the television series The High Chaparral. He’d seen it several times on late-night television. It was one of Zack’s favorites.
The house sat on a slight rise.
Suzanne’s abductors had obviously felt no need to hide their presence.
There was little around the house in the way of cover for Hart to use while approaching. He pulled a two-way radio from a pocket of his combat vest and called in. “Ice to Cowboy.”
“Cowboy, here,” Zack said.
“They’re in the High Chaparral house.”
“Perfect place for a showdown,” Cowboy said. “Be there in five. Over.”
Hart removed his goggles. Crouching as close to the ground as he could, he made his way toward the house, praying no one would see him. He stopped behind a large crate that stood just a few feet from the front porch and peered around it into one of the windows.
The man who’d been watching Suzanne in the restaurant and playing the coin through his fingers walked past, then walked back and looked out.
Something had bothered Hart about Rick’s autopsy report, but he hadn’t been able to determine what. Now, suddenly, he knew. He stared at the man from the restaurant, trying to see beyond the plastic surgery he suspected had been performed over the last year. But it was too good. There was not even a trace of the face of the man he’d once known.
Tearing his gaze away, he looked beyond the man into the room. He saw the chief seated on a bench and leaning back against the wall, feet up on a table. He looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Fury pulled at Hart’s fists, drew at his jaw, rolled through his blood. Carger would have all too many cares when this was over.
Trent’s widow and Suzanne were sitting nearby. The widow appeared to be asleep, and Suzanne was staring at the chief.
Prisoner? Or accomplice? The thought jumped into Hart’s mind, but it was one he didn’t welcome.
Suzanne turned then and said something to the chief.
Carger didn’t respond, but the man at the window turned and stalked across the room, stopping in front of her, his stance emanating rage.
Hart tensed.
Suzanne spoke again, then thrust out her chin defiantly, as if daring him to respond.
The man slapped her across the face.
She flew back in her chair, hit the wall and nearly fell from her seat.
Hart jumped up, fury boiling his blood, then caught himself and moved back into the shadows behind the crate. He’d kill the creep, but not yet. To move in now would only result in them both getting killed. He glanced at his watch.
One minute.
Time to move closer.
He ran stealthily to the veranda, straightening upon arrival and flattening himself against the rough adobe wall beside one of the windows.
He could hear them talking now, arguing about whether or not he was coming and what to do if he didn’t.
Wop-wop-wop.
Hart glanced toward the sky as the soft but still-distant sound of rotor blades cut through the night’s silence, announcing the approach of two Cobras and several Blackhawks.
He moved around a corner of the house and positioned himself nearer one of the side windows.
Wop-wop-wop.
The sound grew louder, deafening. The Cobras flew into sight.
The two men inside ran to the door, threw it open and stepped onto the veranda to look up past the overhanging roof.
“Damned double-crossing SOB,” Carger cursed, flicking his cigarette into the darkness.
Eight ropes hit the ground—four in front of the house, four to the rear. Almost instantly eight paratroopers descended from the Blackhawks. The two Cobras hovered overhead, standing guard, while a gunner in each Blackhawk trained his sights on the house.
Hart took a running leap and threw himself through a side window, rolled on the floor, then jumped to his feet, his gun gripped and ready in his hand.
Carger and the other man whirled and ran back inside. Carger headed for the back door, the other man grabbed for Suzanne. But she evaded his grasp and dashed toward Hart.
“Get down,” he yelled, and shoved her behind him, turning back to face his adversary at the same time.
“Say goodbye to the world, Captain,” the man said. His gun was pointed directly at Hart.
Suzanne saw the hate in his eyes and knew he was going to kill Hart. She threw herself at him to ward off the bullet.
Glass splintered.
Men yelled.
Gunfire exploded in the room.
And Suzanne screamed.
Her assailant suddenly jerked awkwardly and dropped his gun. Blood spurted from his shoulder as he fell to his knees.
Near one of the other windows Zack stood, brushing glass from his flight suit, while Rand ushered Chief Carger and the widow Trent back into the room.
“Everything okay, Captain?” Zack asked, grinning as he glanced down at the wounded man.
Hart waved at Zack and pulled Suzanne into his arms, knowing he needed to hold her, to feel her against him in order to believe that she was really all right. He had never been so afraid or so angry. She could have been killed.
Relief swept through Suzanne as she sank into Hart’s embrace. He’d come for her—and he was safe. Whatever else happened, that was all that mattered now. She held him to her, the warmth of his body banishing the icy chill of fear that had kept her mercilessly in its grip for the past several hours. They were alive. The world was still spinning. This horrible ordeal was finally over. Everything was going to be—
“Hart,” she screamed, tearing herself from his arms and staring past him.
He spun.
The wounded man struggled to his feet, holding a hand to his bloody shoulder. “I knew I should have killed you during Jaguar Loop, too,” he growled. Hate shone from his eyes.
Rage sped through Hart like fire sweeping over a field of dry grass. Stalking across the room, he grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and jerked him toward him. “Your face is that of a stranger,” he said softly, “but we both know who you are, don’t we?”
In spite of his words, there was one thing he had to do to be certain he was right. Stepping back, Hart ripped the front of the man’s shirt away.
Suzanne stared, not understanding.
Hart’s gaze turned murderous.
The night before the Jaguar Loop mission, the pilots had been playing volleyball in an effort to relieve the tension. Brenner Trent had been taking bets on which side would win.
Just before the end of the game Rick ran to make a hit and tripped. The dead tree limb he fell on had ripped a nasty gash halfway across his chest, but he had adamantly refused to see the medic for fear he’d be pulled from the mission. Rick could have had plastic surgery to fix his face, but why would he bother with a scar on his chest no one would see?
Hart glanced at the man’s chest, at where there should be a scar if this was Rick Cassidy. There wasn’t. His gaze shot up to meet the cold blue eyes staring defiantly back at him.
“You lousy son of a bitch,” he said softly, then turned away from Brenner Trent and walked back to Suzanne.
“I told you this wouldn’t work, Brenner,” Kristen yelled as Sal DeBraggo secured a pair of handcuffs around her wrists. “I told you. But you just wouldn’t listen, would you?”
Suzanne glanced at DeBraggo, then looked at the man Kristen Trent had called Br
enner. Understanding flashed through her instantly. He looked nothing like the boyish soldier she remembered. Instead, his features were sharply chiseled, every line hard and unyielding.
Suzanne shivered, knowing how close death had come and how thankful she was that it hadn’t.
DeBraggo looked over Kristen’s shoulder at Hart. “From now on, Captain, I’ll do my rescuing from ground level.”
Zack laughed. “He didn’t take much to my flying, I guess.”
Kristen and the two men were ushered outside and toward the Blackhawks waiting in the parking lot.
Hart turned back to Suzanne. “Are you all right?” he asked, drawing her back into his arms. He’d been a fool for not believing her, for letting her walk away from him a year ago, and he hadn’t realized it until it was almost too late.
She nodded, her head against his chest. “I was so scared they were going to kill you.”
Emotion overwhelmed him, but rather than push it away, as he’d always done in the past, he welcomed it. “And I was terrified they’d already killed you.”
“But—” she shook her head “—I don’t understand. Why is Mr. DeBraggo here?”
“He’s a fed,” Hart said. “I found out a couple of days ago. He’s been watching you, and me, ever since you arrived here. The bit about his wife and the jewelry was a cover. He borrowed it from the New York Met. His job was to watch you and protect you if necessary.”
“Protect me? I thought they wanted to put me in jail.”
“He used us to ferret out the real murderers and thieves.”
“Then Rick really is…”
“Dead. Carger stole the plans from his attaché, and Brenner sabotaged Rick’s Cobra so everyone would think the plans were destroyed in the wreckage. What they didn’t know was that Rick had already discovered the theft and reported it. Which is the reason DeBraggo never went along with the idea of Rick being alive.”
“So they didn’t have to kill him.”
“No, they didn’t.”
His arms felt so good around her. She breathed in the smell of him, snuggled into his warmth, drew on his strength.
“But how did you know that was Brenner Trent? I mean, his face…it was so changed. He didn’t look at all like himself.”
Hart felt a sudden weight settle on him. Her question was the one he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask and the one he’d known he would have to answer, anyway. “I saw him in the restaurant watching you the day you went to meet Kristen Trent.”
“What?” She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. “You were there?”
“Yes. I didn’t know it was Brenner then,” Hart said. “But I knew, somehow, that he was someone I knew and involved in this whole mess.”
She pushed out of his embrace, as he’d feared she would. “You followed me. You saw him watching me.” She shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me?”
Hart inhaled deeply and sighed. She’d hate him now, also as he’d feared. “I didn’t know if I could trust you. I didn’t know if he was watching you or your back, whether he was a federal agent, an enemy or an accomplice.”
“My accomplice,” she said, nodding in understanding.
“Yes.” He felt as if he was digging his own grave. “I hated suspecting you, Suzanne, but I had to. And I only figured out this whole mess a few hours ago with DeBraggo’s help. But by then it was too late. Brenner and Carger already had you.”
Suddenly the joy of being in his arms, of feeling the warmth and strength of his embrace and knowing she was safe was gone. Instead, Suzanne felt cold and empty and very much alone.
Tears filled her eyes, and anguish her heart. “I was terrified,” she said, her voice breaking over the words. “I was terrified for you, Hart, at the thought of you coming after me and being killed.”
“But I did come,” he said softly, trying to reason with her, “and I didn’t get killed.”
Fury swept through her, engulfed her, unreasonably, inexplicably and uncontrollably. “Yes, you came, but you thought I’d lied to you. You suspected me of treason and murder. And you probably still weren’t sure if I was innocent or luring you into a trap until you got here, were you?”
He didn’t answer, but his silence was answer enough.
“You didn’t tell me about him.” She pointed in the direction Brenner had been taken. “You didn’t tell me and I was nearly killed.”
“I couldn’t trust you.”
For several seconds that seemed longer than an eternity, yet shorter than the blink of an eye, she stared at him, looking for the man she’d thought she had known, thought she had fallen in love with. But he wasn’t there. Maybe he had never been there, except in her desperate, lonely, yearning imagination.
“How could you do that?” Her eyes glistened now with tears, but without waiting for an answer she turned and stormed from the house.
Hart walked to the door and watched her stride down the narrow, dirt-covered street toward the police cars that had joined the Blackhawks and Cobras sitting quiet and still in the parking lot.
Ever since the day she’d left Three Hills, he had felt an emptiness inside he couldn’t banish, no matter what he did. He’d tried immersing himself in work, dating a different woman every week, and a few times he’d even tried to drown himself in booze. Nothing had worked. But he’d denied that the way he’d felt was because of anything other than the knowledge that the only friend he’d ever allowed himself to have was dead.
Now he knew it had been more than that. It had been because Suzanne had left, because she hadn’t been in his life anymore.
He watched her pass through the studio’s entry gate and out of his sight, and the old, familiar feeling of chilling emptiness that had started to steal over him again intensified.
Hart sighed deeply and walked into the yard. He looked up at the sky. It was better this way. Clenching his hands into fists, he repeated the conviction, over and over. It was better this way. Love was merely a fantasy, and it always died or betrayed you somehow. The attraction that had burned between them had only been physical, anyway. They’d have soon tired of each other. Maybe even ended up hating each other. Wasn’t that what happened to most people?
He walked toward one of the waiting Blackhawks.
Zack approached him as he was about to climb in. “The C.O. just called,” he said. “He wants you to report to the base and assist with an immediate interrogation of the prisoners.”
Hart nodded. Why not? He didn’t have anything else to do.
Chapter 14
Suzanne grabbed another handful of lingerie from the dresser drawer and threw it into her suitcase. “Damn him.” She stalked to the closet, ripped another dress from its hanger, threw it into the suitcase, slammed the thing shut and swore again.
“Fry in hell, Captain Branson,” she said, damning the tears that had begun to course down her cheeks as she’d walked away from him and still wouldn’t stop.
She grabbed another suitcase, then paused upon catching a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror. “Oh, God,” she moaned. Who was she trying to fool? In Hart Branson’s embrace she’d found what she’d been seeking all her life, what she’d always dreamed and fantasized about, what she’d wanted so desperately to feel. She’d found a love so all-consuming she didn’t know if she could live without it.
But he hadn’t trusted her. He’d almost gotten her killed.
Walking into the living room, she flopped down on the overstuffed sofa and stared past the glass patio doors at the distant horizon, trying to deny to herself that she’d been waiting for him to call.
The mountains in the far-off distance were ragged silhouettes against the dark sky, the stars above them like tiny diamonds.
She glanced at the old pioneer clock that sat on the mantel. It was four in the morning, three hours since she’d left him at the studio lot. Plenty of time for him to have called. She drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them.
How could she have
been so stupid as to fall in love with Hart? He was the exact type of man she’d sworn never to even throw a second glance at again. His life was devoted to the military, and danger. Two things she could definitely do without forever.
Her father had been career army. Her husband had been career army. They’d loved the danger, the constant moving, the new assignments, never knowing what tomorrow would bring.
If her father hadn’t been so devoted to the army—had loved his wife and daughter more—maybe they would have remained a family. Maybe her mother wouldn’t have changed husbands as often as the wind changed direction.
And maybe if she hadn’t married a man so much like her father, the marriage would have worked. Maybe if she could have gotten Rick to leave the army—have a normal job—a normal life—he wouldn’t have cheated on her. Maybe—
You didn’t lose them because they were army, a little voice in the back of her mind said.
She refused to listen and shoved off the sofa to pace the room. Why did the men in her life always betray her?
Hart had believed her capable of treason. And murder. It was incredible. Preposterous. Yet he had. He had talked to her, laughed with her, kissed her and made love to her, and all the while he’d believed her a murderer.
She suddenly stopped pacing. He had believed it of her—and at the same time, she had believed it of him. The shock of that realization stunned her.
She was guilty of the same thing she was damning him for.
But if he loved her, why had he let her walk away? Why hadn’t he called?
Hart walked out of the room they’d been using to interrogate Brenner and his accomplice. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle and bone in his body. He pushed open the exit door and walked outside. Stretching his arms wide, he breathed deeply of the fresh night air and drank in the sweet smell of the desert.
But it didn’t take away the feeling of emptiness that had been gnawing at him for hours, and going back to his apartment was far from appealing. The place was still trashed, and Military Intelligence agents were probably still there, looking for anything Brenner or Carger might have tried to plant to incriminate him.
